Guilt Trip

by Maggy Farrell

  <><><>

  Mrs Cosgrove led me down the hall to the next room: a pretty, pink and white study with French windows looking out onto a very well maintained, if rain-soaked, back garden. By the window stood a small, neat, mahogany desk on which was an ornamental, silver inkwell which was being used as a vase for a tiny posy of pink flowers. A pale, chintz sofa rested before the fire, its cushions plumped up and arranged in a neat row. And the walls were lined with elegant, white bookshelves.

  I let my eye roam over the many titles, expecting to find stories of romance or perhaps love poetry, or even the tales of Beatrix Potter. But actually, all the books in this pretty study dealt with darker subjects: ancient religious cults, paranormal activities and the rites of death.

  “Reincarnation,” she said. “A fascinating topic. And a surprisingly popular concept. Buddhists, Taoists, Hindus, Jainists, Neo-Pagans, New-Age followers... They all believe in it to some extent.”

  She selected a book from a shelf and found the page she was looking for. “According to the ancient Chinese philosopher, Chuang Tzu,” she read, “birth is not a beginning; death is not an end. There is existence without limitation.

  “And apparently Pythagoras claimed he could remember his past lives.”

  She scanned her library shelves, obviously on a roll. “Even Socrates may have believed,” she said, taking out another book and running her finger down the index. “Ah, here we are.” She turned to a specific page. “Plato writes that before Socrates’ death, he said he was ‘confident that there truly is such a thing as living again, and that the living spring from the dead’."

  Smiling, she opened yet another book: “And so man is bound up with the laws of nature. As the seasons roll round from spring to summer to autumn to winter, so man moves from birth to childhood to adulthood to death. But after winter, comes spring again and the cycle continues. So too, for man, after death comes rebirth.”

  She shut the book and peered at me. “Does that help at all?”

  To be honest, I wasn’t sure that it did. Not really. I mean, it was nice that she was trying to reassure me that lots of intelligent scholars and thinkers had believed in the idea; but where did that really get me? I still didn’t understand how it worked.

  I mean, was a life force or inner spirit or energy - call it what you will - was it like a hotel room, or a hire car, or like the Earth itself - there to be used by different people at different times? And was I therefore the next in line after Billie? So that once she died, the life force within her entered me, and after me it would go to someone else? Like God taking a battery out of an old toy, and transferring it to a new one?

  Mrs Cosgrove tried to enlighten me, reading out various passages in which intellectuals expressed their opinions on how it might work, but they were so full of long words and references to other studies that I just ended up even more confused. As she herself was eventually forced to admit, death was a complex subject, which had attracted a bewildering number of complicated theories, but which was totally lacking in any kind of hard evidence or known truths.

  As I left, I hugged her warmly. She was a kind woman. After all, she had tried to help me. And my visit hadn’t been a total failure. Okay, so I still didn’t fully understand the process of reincarnation, but I had come away knowing one thing. A definite fact. A certainty.

  Billie and I were connected somehow.

  We shared something. Something inside us. A life force. Which, to me, made us pretty much family. Siblings.

  And Luke had been responsible for her accident, somehow. I was sure of it, deep down in my gut. Some violent, threatening action on his part, meant as a punishment for destroying the pink bear, had gone too far, leading to her death. And so, without enough proof to go to the proper authorities, it was up to me to avenge her.

  It was time to teach Luke a lesson.

  28

  Back at the pub, I crept unseen up to Dad’s room, and tapped on the door, but there was no answer. But up in my room I found a note which had been pushed under the door. It was wrapped round two twenty-pound notes. Dad.

  ‘Where are you? Why’s your phone off? I think we should leave tonight - so can’t hang about waiting all morning. Things to do. See you at dinner.’

  I looked at my watch: it was only ten o’clock: he hadn’t waited very long. But then, if we were leaving tonight instead of tomorrow, he’d want to make the most of the time left to get some last shots. If that’s what he was doing. But something told me he just wanted to be alone. Poor Dad. Last night had really upset him. And now he wanted to leave early, our holiday over, so that he could get back home, to his memories of Mum.

  If only I could explain to him that it was Billie, not Mum, who had come to the Spiritualist meeting…

  In a way though, his absence was a good thing. If this was to be our last day, then I had a lot to fit in. So, having finally cleaned my teeth and brushed my hair, with no supernatural manifestations, I pocketed the money and hurried off to do some shopping.

  Ignoring most of the proper shops lining the marketplace, I dived into every charity shop I came across, racing round them as fast as I could. Next, I made a quick and successful stop at a sports and outdoor equipment shop. So far so good.

  But then, having carefully chosen a few essential items from the chemist’s, my search came to a sudden halt. They didn’t sell the other thing I needed. The main thing. The thing upon which my whole plan depended.

  Leaving the shop, I looked around me desperately. What was I going to do? But then, luckily, I spotted lots of brightly-coloured outfits and balloons hanging in a bay window down a side street. A party shop. Worth a try, I thought, dodging traffic as I ran across the road.

  <><><>

  It was almost lunchtime when I got back to the pub with an assortment of carrier bags.

  Entering by the front door, I heard a familiar voice. Luke was busy with some guests at reception. He finished serving them quickly, and hurried over.

  “Mel,” he said, lowering his voice so that the guests, who were now heading for the bar, wouldn’t hear. “Finally. Where’ve you been? I’ve been so worried.”

  I was quite taken-aback by his concern, having fully expected him to be furious with me for screaming and slamming my door on him the night before. However, my absence at breakfast seemed to have offset that so that last night was all forgotten about.

  “So - your Dad says you’re checking out tonight?”

  Ah. So that was it. He was upset that his Billie look-alike was leaving early.

  I took a deep breath. It was time to start the ball rolling. To put my plan into action.

  I shrugged sadly. “I feel like we’ve wasted so much time,” I said softly, a small melancholic smile playing over my lips. “And now it’s almost over.”

  At my apparent regret, Luke moved in closer. “But it doesn’t have to be,” he whispered, reaching out to fiddle with a lock of my hair. “Don’t leave me, Mel. Please, don’t go.”

  I was speechless. Had he really just said that? Poor, pathetic man. He must have been absolutely desperate not to lose this new, living, breathing Billie to even consider such a thing.

  I felt my resolve crumble a little, weakening as pity squirmed its way into my heart. Maybe he’d been punished enough…

  But then I was pulled up sharply by his next words:

  “I love you.”

  I was dumbfounded. I couldn’t believe the lengths he was prepared to go to in order to try to make me do what he wanted. What did he think: that on hearing those three little words - abracadabra! - I would instantly forget his previous behaviour and decide to give up Dad and school and stay here ‘happily ever after’ with a man more than twice my age? That I would simply live out my days pretending to be his long-dead girlfriend?

  And the worst thing was that only a few hours ago I might have fallen for it…

  But not now. Now I could see through his tricks. His lies. His manipulation. A grown man playing upon the feelings
of a needy, gullible teenager. And it sickened me.

  I wanted to laugh in his face. I wanted to spit at him. I wanted to teach him his lesson right there and then.

  But I didn’t. Somehow, with every molecule of strength I could muster, I managed to hold it all in - all that hate, all that disgust - and stick firmly to my plan.

  “Let’s go somewhere,” I said, smothering my bitterness in syrupy tones. “This afternoon.” I looked at him, meaningfully. “Just the two of us.”

  His face lit up like a child in a sweetshop. “I’ll just get someone else to cover the lunchtime service -” he began, already starting towards the bar.

  “No - wait.” I reached out and touched his arm. “Not yet. I have to do something first.”

  He stopped and looked at me, hurt instantly creasing his brow.

  “Something nice,” I said. “For you.” I looked down at the carpet as if embarrassed and then raised my eyes to him, coyly. “A surprise.”

  He beamed, all sherbet and lollipops again.

  I marvelled at how easy it was to fool him. To play him at his own game.

  “So you do your lunch service. And I’ll meet you later.”

  “Where?”

  “Here at reception. Let’s say, two-thirty?”

  “Two-thirty? But that’s ages!” he whined.

  “Don’t worry,” I smiled mischievously. “It’ll be worth it. I promise.” Then I leaned in and kissed him lightly on the mouth, a tiny, secret kiss. A kiss to ensnare him.

  And it worked.

  As I pulled away, Luke tried to grab hold of me, wanting more, but I wriggled free, giggling, and headed for the stairs, awarding myself an Oscar for my performance of a girl in love.

  Halfway up the first flight, I glanced back. Yes - he was still there, watching me. Hating to see me go.

  Caught. Hook, line and sinker.

  I smiled at him, and he smiled back, almost shyly, brushing his hair back from his face. It was something I’d seen him do countless times before. A nervous gesture. But while it was familiar to me - a hand brushing through his hair, pulling it back from his forehead - there was something odd about it this time. Something different.

  It was a scar, above his right eyebrow, too faded to be new, and yet I’d never noticed it before. An old scar, in the exact spot where I’d stabbed the young Luke with the tweezers…

  Back in my room I pulled Billie’s diary out of my bag and quickly turned to the episode in the bathroom, but of course, most of it was illegible, obliterated by Luke’s pen. But Billie had also referred to it later, in her last entry, about the bear. I read that through again. But no - it still wasn’t clear. She talked about how she’d reacted ‘like that’ to him, but she didn’t explain or give details. And there was certainly no mention of any tweezers.

  But then I thought about Billie’s face looking out at me from the bathroom mirror as she endured Luke’s kisses and his violence. It had been passive, expressionless. So surely that was her reaction - a lack of response - which had angered him.

  So there was no way that Billie had attacked Luke with the tweezers.

  But then… It must have been me.

  But how? None of that had actually happened, had it? Surely - it was only in my head, or Billie’s memory - whatever those flashbacks and déjà vu moments actually were. And though the pain had been intense at the time, afterwards I’d felt nothing. As if it had never happened.

  And yet he was scarred?

  I didn’t understand.

  Was it something about sharing Billie’s life force? I mean, I guessed it was the same energy being used to attack him, only it was being used by me instead of her. Is that how it worked?

  <><><>

  Sitting before the mirror, I willed Billie to appear, to tell me that I was doing the right thing. But still she was absent. I guessed she must have agreed with my plan. That it had her approval. Her consent.

  Rifling through my shopping bags, I took out a can that I’d bought at the party shop, and looked at the label. Temporary hair dye: shade - hot purple. It rattled as I shook it vigorously. And then, very carefully, I selected a few strands of hair, and began to spray.

  I looked at the effect. Maybe a little bright. But not bad.

  Rummaging through the bags again, I picked out a tiny pot of liquid eyeliner: 24 hour, waterproof - deepest black. And a new, extra-black, waterproof mascara. Holding the newspaper cutting from the diary, I studied Billie’s photo. Then I began to outline my eyes in small, even strokes, building it up and up, and out into a flick at the sides. A quick brush with the new mascara and then I sat back and surveyed the results. Yes. Not exactly the same. Not messy enough to be called grunge, perhaps. But certainly close.

  Next, I took out my thickest, strongest, leather belt and threaded it through the loops of my jeans. Taking a pair of carabiner clips out of another bag, I hooked them together, attaching one end through the belt loop at the back of my jeans making sure that it also went round the belt itself, tucking the rest inside my jeans out of view.

  Then I shook something out of a charity shop carrier bag: a black and purple striped long-sleeved T-shirt. In the cutting, Billie seemed to be wearing a striped T-shirt with a plain long-sleeved one underneath, so mine wasn’t totally right. But it was all I could find in one morning, and it still gave the right impression.

  Taking some plain writing paper and envelopes out of another carrier, I began copying some of Billie’s letters from her diary, over and over, moving on to whole words when I was satisfied that I could manage them in a relatively smooth hand. Then, taking a clean sheet of paper and rubbing it carefully over the diary pages in order to transfer some of Billie’s perfume to it, I was ready to start my note:

  ‘I’m waiting for you at Hell’s Mouth. It will be just like before, I promise.’

  Then I grabbed my bag and jacket and, pulling my hood over my newly-dyed hair, I quietly slipped downstairs, pausing only to leave the sealed envelope propped up at reception as I stole quietly out of the back door.

  29

  Rain streamed down the windows of the bus as it made its long, tortuous journey all the way round the outskirts of the Devil’s Lair. It seemed to take an age, stopping at every village along the way, the driver chatting to any regulars as they got on or off.

  I sat near the back, keeping my hood up and my head down, trying to calm my growing anxiety. It was taking so long. Too long. Much longer than the straight route over the fells. It was giving me too much time to think. To question. To doubt.

  Maybe I should just forget about it. Get the next bus back to the pub. Pack my things. Then tonight after dinner, Dad and I would leave here forever, and Luke would lose his Billie again, and be left all alone and bereft. And that would be that. Punishment dealt.

  But it wasn’t enough. Not for all that he had done.

  Not by a long way.

  I got off the bus one stop after the Hell’s Mouth Show Caves, outside a couple of old cottages, heading towards them as the bus pulled away. Then, as soon as it was out of sight, I turned round and hurried in the other direction along the quiet, winding, country road, my hood still up, trying to protect my hair and make-up from the lashing rain. All too soon I was soaked through. But I had to hurry on. Time was pressing. Luke might have found my note by now. He could already be on his way.

  In fact, as the sign for Hell’s Mouth came into view, I thought I heard the faint hum of an engine. No! Was he here already? The sound was muffled, but whether by the rain or by distance I wasn’t sure.

  I began to sprint along the road, running through the car park and charging up the covered steps to the ticket office. The place was shut on Mondays, but I still peeked in to make sure that none of the staff were about. No: the place was empty. I looked at my reflection in the office window, checking to see how badly the rain had affected my eye make-up. But - thank God for waterproof - it was fine.

  Crouching down, I opened my bag and, pulling down my sleeve, stretch
ing it so that it covered my hand and fingers, I took out one of two bottles of Coke, unscrewing the lid, scratching it on the stone step so that I’d be able to recognise it later. Then I took three pills from my pocket - my new pills - pulling each capsule apart carefully, emptying their powdery contents into the Coke.

  Then, stuffing everything back into my bag as quickly as possible, I hurried halfway down the steps where I sat, rubbing my hands together, making a concerted effort to stop myself shaking.

  But I was just so cold and wet - and hideously nervous. What was I doing? Every instinct in my body told me to run away, to hide; but I forced myself to stay.

  By now the engine sound was getting louder, and only a few seconds later, a motorbike turned into the car park.

  At first it headed towards me, but then it stopped abruptly, the rider sitting there, in the rain, staring.

  I guessed he’d noticed my new look then.

  I watched nervously, wondering what he was going to do.

  He sat there.

  I had to do something. Slowly and as casually as possible, I got up and walked down a few more steps, an uncertain smile stuck to my face and my heart beating wildly against my rib cage. Stopping near the bottom, looking straight at him, I pulled my hood all the way back, fully displaying my striped hair, ending with a slight theatrical flourish as if to say ‘Ta da!’

  At my bold move, the bike came forward, pulling up next to the steps, Luke climbing off, removing his helmet.

  He wasn’t smiling.

  He stood, only one step between us, looking me over: taking in my hair and my eyes.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded, his tone cold. Glancing round, warily, he pulled my note from his inside pocket and practically shoved it in my face. “What’s all this about?”

  My stomach tightened. This wasn’t going to work. How could I ever have thought it would? But it was too late to back down now. I had to brave it out.

  “It’s for you,” I said, taking the note from him casually, my voice betraying me with a tiny wobble. “Your surprise. I thought this is what you wanted.”